Category Archives: Grief

A birthday

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Friday 17th April

I suppose there are going to be a lot of these ‘first times’, without you.

Well, today was your brother’s first birthday without you being here. And he did say that he missed opening a card from you. (Even though he knew I was really good at forging your handwriting!)

I was actually going to buy a birthday card from you; one with a lovely photograph of sunflowers, but I thought it might upset our younger son too much.

Anyway, we toasted your health, said how much we missed you, and we knew you were looking down sending kisses our way.

We cried as we walked home after having dinner, thinking of you, and how very much we wish you were still here.

We did go to your graveside this morning and talk about your brother and his birthday. We knew you would want to wish him a happy birthday. In your own way we knew you loved him, and he was so proud of you, too.

We just feel so lost without you. You were such a big presence throughout all our lives.

 

Five weeks

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Thursday 16th April

How long will I keep on counting the weeks since you died?

Every Thursday I remember you. I go through that day in my mind.

I saw you quickly in the morning, before I went off to work. Then later on when you all returned from collecting your brother from the airport. You were happy. You weren’t in any pain. Just a bit tired and not hungry. Going upstairs for a little sleep was the last time we saw you alive.

Five weeks.

Thirty five days.

Eight hundred and forty hours.

Fifty thousand, four hundred minutes.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I will never forget.

We are still receiving sympathy cards, (three in the post today). New people come up to us and ask how we are, and say sorry for our loss. And again we visit your graveside, and today we plant some petunias for you. Your floral tributes are still looking beautiful, and we water them carefully to make sure they stay as fresh as possible.

We miss you so very, very much xxxx

Our grief

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Wednesday 15th April

Our grief over the loss of you is immense. For as long as our hearts beat, we will be always missing you.

You had the power to instill within us, such great love and compassion towards you.

You were our life. We lived with you, for you, because of you. And now it’s so damned difficult to live without you.

Your He Man sword on it’s pillow of white flowers is buried with you.

You have the power to live in our hearts forever.

It’s damp and misty when we visit your graveside today, but we must summon up all our strength and power, to talk with you, to share our love for you, to remember the good times, to tell you that you’re safe now.

You are our Starman with Angel wings.

You are He Man who has the power.

Fly free with the angels, sleep peacefully, without pain. Look down on us, and know how deeply we love and miss you xxxx

 

(Delayed) month 15 clinical drugs trial

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Tuesday 14th April

Off to Exeter hospital today for a battery of tests that I should have had done last month.

I have Stage 3c malignant melanoma, the deadliest form of skin cancer.

A mole on my left foot began causing problems just over two years ago, so I had it removed, complete with skin graft. Following a sentinel node biopsy, I learnt that cancerous cells had spread to my lymph nodes at the top of my leg, so I had a left groin dissection in November 2013, leaving me with lymphoedema in that leg, but wearing a support stocking does help tremendously, although it does look ghastly.

For all of last year I was on the double-blind Combi-Ad clinical drugs trial, by GSK. An adjuvant therapy combining Dabrafenib and Trametinib. Monthly hospital visits, with scans, ECG, heart Echo, eye exams, dermatology, haematology and oncology appointments.

Now that I’ve completed the “drugs” part, I’m being monitored every three months for the next two years, then six-monthly for two more years after that. Today I start with dermatology, then blood and obs ~ my blood pressure was a bit high ~ then a CT scan, and finally a visit to the oncologist.

I did find the day very draining, as our elder son would most often come to the hospital with us, and knew the nurses there very well. So it was quite an emotional time, explaining all that had happened. Really quite rubbish to be truthful. Especially since the last five months or so, we have been totally focused on him, and the testicular cancer attacking his body.

Plus, going through the scan, all I could think of was my son, and how I wish his scan had shown a problem that could/should have been spotted or fixed.

The oncologist had a quick glance at my scan images, and all looks good, apart from maybe a slightly swollen thyroid gland. But I will have to wait for the senior radiographer’s report and results from the blood tests. But he didn’t seem unduly worried.

We drove home mostly in silence. Deep in thought. Thinking. If only….. What if…… Why……

We did stop by the cemetery though, to talk with our son, to let him know how I’d got on today. I know that sounds strange, but we find it comforting, and actually necessary to visit each day. To water the flowers, to touch the simple wooden cross, as if somehow we’re connecting with him.

It really doesn’t seem right. I just wish he was back here with us. Why did his treatment fail him? Will we ever get an answer to that question? Will we be told exactly what went wrong?

We have too many unanswered questions going round and round in our heads. Why, why, why?

I cried again today

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Monday 13th April

I cried for you before I got up out of bed this morning. The hurt in my throat and chest seems to be there each day as I wake. I cried when we met two people on our walk into town, who spoke about you, and gave their condolences. I cried when I went to the bank and cancelled my direct debits into your account ~ your ‘pocket money’. I cried when I bought your brother a birthday card, knowing you will never receive one ever again. I cried some more when we visited your graveside to water the flowers and talk to you this afternoon.

No one really knows the depth of grief we are feeling at the moment. Our thirty year old autistic son, diagnosed with testicular cancer, was our companion. He didn’t go off and make his own way in the world, meet a girl, make her his wife, or have children. He depended on us totally. And we did everything for him, with him, based around him: he was our life. He was there, with us, always. Fun, cheeky, surprising, caring, chatty, loving.

Our lives have been changed forever. An emptiness is there, that nothing it seems, can fill. We will go on, because I’m sure he would want that, but our hearts are broken.

Nothing, absolutely nothing in this world prepares you for the unbelievable sense of loss and grief that comes when you lose your child. Parents should never, ever have to bury their child. His younger brother should not have to bear the pain of losing his sibling. There is no time limit for grief. It remains with us all, in different ways, forever.

Our son is gone, but until the last breath we take, he lives on in our hearts. His spirit is with us. The memories we have are wonderful, and we will treasure those. It’s all that we can do.

Reminders

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Sunday 12th April

All around us, we are reminded of you. Yes, your photographs are everywhere, your books and DVD’s neatly lined up, the many, many sympathy cards along the shelves in the lounge, (and no, I don’t know when I’ll take them down). To your shoes and slippers, your coat at the bottom of the stairs, your toothbrush in the bathroom, and your dressing gown still lying on our bed.

You are everywhere, but nowhere.

Again we light candles in the church, then tend to your grave.

We talk to you, but there is no answer.

How we wish you were here with us now. Our hearts are broken.

We just don’t know what to do.

 

Flowers

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Saturday 11th April

We bring you a bouquet of yellow roses and white carnations today. I place them amongst the sunflowers.

The letters spelling out your name in white chrysanthemums still look beautiful, and we water them, and talk to you, and tell you we love you and miss you so, so much.

We said we wouldn’t cry today, but we did.

Looking at your Auntie’s wreath, she explains her choices for you in ‘The Language of Flowers’:

Alstroemeria ~ Devotion

Cypress ~ Mourning

Eucalyptus ~ Protection

Lungwort ~ You are my life

Moss ~ Maternal love

Myrtle ~ Love

Rosemary ~ Remembrance

White carnation ~ Pure love.

Night night lovely boy xxxx

Is that you?

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Friday 10th April

We still cry at your graveside today.

We cannot believe that you have left us.

It is so hard to understand that we will never, ever see you again in this life.

We see a goldfinch, flitting from gravestone to gravestone, singing it’s heart out. Is that you? Letting us know that your spirit is close by. The bright yellow feathers matching the sunflowers atop your grave. Is that you?

Four weeks

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Thursday 9th April

Four weeks ago today our darling son gained his angel wings. Unexpectedly. Without warning. We still haven’t come to terms with it.

Diagnosed with testicular cancer back in October, he battled his way through chemotherapy. Only his body wasn’t strong enough to take it. He was beaten at the final hurdle.

We visited his graveside again today, as we said we would. It doesn’t get any easier at all. We love him so very much, and miss his voice, his smile, his everything.

We sow some seeds along the top of the grave, from flowers in our garden. We try to think of the good times, but our grief is so immense, it just seems so futile. He was such a great companion to have around. Life seems so very empty

In the afternoon, having told ourselves we need some exercise, we go for a walk in the sunshine. Holidaymakers are on the beach, in the cafes and shops. We head for the church, to sit quietly, collect our thoughts, and light candles for our beloved Angel.

Life seems so unfair right now.

The Interment

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Wednesday 8th April

Today we bury our elder son.

Husband and I, younger son and girlfriend, sister, her husband and their daughter. A small family group to pay our very last respects to our dear boy.

The hearse pulls away a little after 10:30am, the coffin adorned with yellow sunflowers, He Man’s sword on a bed of white chrysanthemums, wreaths, sprays and bouquets. And spelt out alongside is his name. F R A N K.

We follow in a black limousine. We take a very slow drive through the narrow, and quite busy streets of the town. Along the harbour front with the sea sparkling, the sun shining in a perfect blue sky. He would walk for hours along the wharf. Then we turn up through more winding roads, and past the surfing beach, where he would wander along the sand. And then up the hill where we live. Countless times he would have walked up and down these roads, so we had to take him on one last journey. Unbelievably heartbreaking to think he will no longer be able to do this

The cemetery is only a couple of miles out of town, and we drive slowly along in silence. Pulling in, the songbirds are a joy to hear, the pink hibiscus are flowering along the driveway, and everything seems peaceful and still. We draw to a stop, get out of the car, and watch the coffin being taken up to the grave. White ribbon straps are attached, and as it is slowly lowered the church Father says prayers and commends our son to eternal life. We are all sobbing. We cast some soil on to the top of the coffin, then a sunflower each, that our younger son has brought along. We each say something, and tell Frank we love him so much.

We ask that the white flowered pillow with He Man’s sword be placed on top of the coffin. After about twenty minutes it is time to leave. We say our tearful goodbyes and head home.

Later on that afternoon though, my husband and I drive out to the cemetery, and see the mound where our son is buried. The flowers look beautiful, and cover the grave completely. There is a simple wooden cross with our son’s name on, and the flower letters spread along the length of where he lays. His final resting place. We break down. We cry and cry. We just cannot believe what has happened. He was so close to kicking this disease. Why did our amazing son have to be so cruelly taken from us?

It is something to which we will never have an answer.

We spend a few quiet moments talking, crying, tending to the flowers. And then it’s time to leave. We tell him we’ll be back tomorrow.